


He Ain't Heavy/Fire Ants/Living On The Sand/Unanswered Whispers

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Between seasons fill-in, Canon correction 3x7, Canon fill-in 3x6, Canon fill-in/scene extension 4x12, Canon stuff applies, Collection of one-shots, Fill-in 4x11, Fill-in between 4x11 and 4x12, Gen, If you are triggered by things in this show then don't read this fandom, In Ian's head, M/M, Mentioned Abuse, Scene extension 5x10, mentioned rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2020-03-09 04:02:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18909148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: I DON'T WRITE FLUFF------Fuck, it hitches in his throat and stabs through his chest. Pulling the blankets off the bed, knowing sleeping on the floor will only make his ribs hurt more in the morning. But he doesn’t fucking care. Not right now. The only thing he cares about is wrapping that man in his arms. Holding him as close as he possibly can. Because he’s too much of a pussy to say the things that need to be said. So he’ll hold him instead. And hope that his thoughts and regrets can find their way to Mickey’s ears silently. Hope that his appreciation for his gesture of love can be transferred through his embrace.------He Ain't Heavy (chapter 1) is a one-shot, Fire Ants (chapter 2) is a one-shot, Living On The Sand (chapter 3) is a one-shot, and Unanswered Whispers (chapter 4) is a one-shot.  Stand alone works put together here to clean up my works space a little :)  These include canon things that some of you may be sensitive to.In thinking on upcoming season 10 Gallavich things, these are the moments I need to exist in my head canon if I can continue to ship them.  Quiet moments that we weren't privy to in the show that prove it's more than fucking and fighting between them :)





	1. He Ain't Heavy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He ain't heavy, he's my brother."
> 
> I know it. You know it.
> 
> Svetlana knows it. And I'll bet Mickey's cute asscheeks he knows it too.
> 
> Just a one-shot, and it's remaining a one-shot :)
> 
> 4x12 fill-in/fix

He Ain’t Heavy

 

“No more bullshit about baby. You help. And Nika comes here to live.”

The stupid strap-on is still trembling on the table where she set it down with so much finality. His eyes drift to the baby against his chest. Fuck, the last couple days. ‘I’m fuckin’ gay’ keeps playing on repeat in his head. 

I’m fuckin’ gay because I can’t stand to see you walk away again. I’m fuckin’ gay because you’re the only person in my life who has ever shown me any kind of tenderness. I’m fuckin’ gay because you’re the only person in my life who has ever wanted to kiss me and touch me and hold me. Like last night. 

I’m fuckin’ gay and now I still got too much shit piling up and no way to get out from under it. 

Sure, Terry’s in the can. That’s all well and fucking good. Mickey came home from the Alibi the other night without Ian. He came home and emptied his room of her shit. And he sat there. In the middle his bed. And waited. For what? He wasn’t sure. For her to come home and make her stand, make her empty threats of outing him and stabbing him and bashing his brains in? For Ian to come find him because it was his fucking turn to make a move? For Mandy to come back home with that fucking Mandingo shit so Mickey could put a bullet in his fucking head like he wanted to?

Fuck. He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure about anything anymore. 

Yeah, it was Ian who showed up first. It was Ian who showed up with his big stupid hands sliding over Mickey’s hair, his stupid soft lips pressing against the top of his head. And Mickeys stupid hands rose from beside him on his bed, they rose to find Ian’s lower back. And his fuckin' face landed in Ian’s middle and he just stayed there. He stayed there listening to whatever fucking organ was sloshing around under his ear and his fingers started gripping the back of his stupid shirt and his breath started hitching in his chest and he didn’t know what to fucking do about it. 

And yeah, it was Ian who stood there and didn’t say anything. Just kept running his stupid fingers through Mickey’s hair and waiting.

Sure, when he finally moved it was to kiss him. It was to kiss him slow and gentle and Mickey fucking hated it as much as he fucking loved it. And he’s always felt that way about that ginger idiot, hasn’t he? 

Sure, they fucked until neither one of them could see straight. And when he woke up this morning and the dope was all tucked around him and holding him, it felt okay. It finally felt fucking okay to be in his own fucking skin.

His gaze shifts from the baby’s blinking eyes to the back of his mother’s head. Red. She dyed her hair red. She put on a strap-on. For what? For his approval? For his love? To revive a marriage that was never more than a piece of paper. Never more than a green card and a way to get Terry off his fucking back. 

For what? For the baby. The baby who doesn’t have a choice. The baby who is you and me. And he doesn’t have a fucking choice.

Do any of us?

When his hand rises to rub into his closed eyes, the baby gurgles. Two days ago, that noise would have set the hair on the back of neck to full standing. It would have clamped a vise grip on his stomach and sent his head reeling. Two days ago, he would have wanted to stifle the life out of this baby with a pillow.

But today, his fingers fall from his eyes and he slides K right into the little grip. And as the little grip brings it towards his mouth, he announces, “no more bullshit about baby.”

She stops moving. Her back towards him, body going stiff. It’s supposed to be an agreement. But it’s not. It’s a statement. It’s his statement now. Not hers.

“No more bullshit about baby,” he tells her again, this time with even more certainty. 

He watches her turn, her mouth is open but his eyebrows dart up to mid forehead and she stops. She’s ticking through her rolodex, wondering what to threaten now, what to intimidate with, how to bribe or blackmail. Knowing now that sex won’t get her out of this. Her trained response. Sex. 

Fuck, “I ain’t stupid.”

Feeling the warmth of the bundled baby cradled against his heart, the grip of his tiny fingers around Mickey’s. Innocence. And Mickey’s not stupid. He knows what the world does to innocence. He remembers clear as day the first time Terry backhanded him. The first time he smacked Mandy. 

His eyes are locked onto hers and she’s caught in her lie. He wonders when her innocence died. Did her father beat it out of her when she was a girl? Or was it later? Maybe when her mother laughed at her dreams of walking on the moon. Maybe when her brother’s friend stuck his hand down her pants for the first time. Maybe later than that, maybe when she was a teenager and her first boyfriend had his hand clamped down on her mouth while he whispered to her that it was normal to hurt the first time. 

Later than that? On her route to the land of choice when she realized she could pay her fare with a blow job. Or when she got here and she understood that her place in this land of choice was no different than her place in the world, any part of the world. Nothing more than the hole between her legs. 

Or did it take longer than that? Was she just a hand-whore with a dream of becoming a teacher? Was she jerking cocks to bide her time until she could find a real job and become a citizen? 

Was it the first time she went further than hands? The first time she fucked a guy for money. The first time Sasha told her she was worth more if she sucked and fucked. The first time she was sent on a house call. The first time she was called over to the Milkovich house of horrors. The first time Terry put his hands around her throat when she told him to put on a rubber. 

The first time, the fifth time, the fiftieth time. Does it matter? 

Or did it only matter when he called her over to ride his queer son until he liked it? Did it only matter when he pulled a gun on her? Did it only matter when she was nothing but a hole being pounded into by the faggot son of her child’s father? Was it then? Was it then that her last shred of innocence was ripped away from her?

Then as he gripped her and took control before all three of them ended up dead. All four, he remembers as the little fingers pulse against his. 

Fuck, was it later than that? Was it when her clammy hand gripped down on his as they walked down the aisle? A moment that maybe a little girl dreams of when she still has those shreds of innocence in tact and laying over her mind like the veil she hopes to wear on that day, that day she takes the hand of the love of her life and speaks the vows that mean the rest of her life. 

The love of her life.

After he was just fucked by his. And he spoke the vows anyway. And he couldn’t look her in the eye. He watched instead her lips. And felt it, felt Ian’s presence and saw his face and heard his voice. And knew it would never be his. And it was for the best. It was for the best for Ian. And he’d never understand that. 

But it didn’t matter. None of it ever mattered. Mickey wasn’t stupid. He knew what life was capable of. He knew too fucking well what life was capable of. He knew it the first time he watched Terry drag his mother through the house by her hair. He knew it the first time he watched Colin use a plastic bag to suffocate an alley cat. He knew it the first time he watched Iggy use a dirty needle they found on a bum under the L. He knew it the first time he heard Terry stumble through Mandy’s bedroom door.

And he knew it the first time Ian fucked him. He knew just how fucking cruel life could be when that ginger’s dick was in his ass and it was the first time in his entire fucking life he felt like he was truly breathing. When he was gripping his bedsheets and his breath was cut off in his chest and his head was spinning. It was the first time he breathed. 

And maybe it was the last fucking time he breathed. Until last night. Until last night when that ginger fucker leaned over him on the bed and kissed him. He kissed him like it was the last act of a dying man, like it was his final moment on this Earth and feel of Mickey’s lips were what he wanted to be ushered out of this world with.

Mickey fucking let him. He let him because he knows. He knows what life does to innocence. And soon enough, it’ll be gone. Just like everything else. Just like every innocent kiss in this life. It’ll be gone. And there’s nothing he can do about it.

But he can do this, “you want me to raise my brother as my son?” his eyes are lingering on her face, watching every single one of her options falling in front of her irises, “you want me to let you stay here. You want to keep your green card. You want to take turns muff diving with some trumpet fucker. That it?”

He can do this. He can do this because it’s better than the alternative. It’s better than allowing Terry to have this innocence. The innocence that is cradled in his arms right now. Warm, soft, sweet, he’s gurgling again and now, right now, Mickey’s okay with that. He’s all chubby, soft edges and warmth that the world will strip away and chisel from his soul if Mickey lets them.

So he can do this, “that’s fuckin’ fine. ‘Long as you and trumpet trollop pay your share. The threats fucking stop. And he,” jerking his head towards the bedroom door where Ian is still sound asleep, “gets left the fuck out of it. All of it.”

Her face is blank, scrolling through her mind what option she has left. Landing on: none. Finally she nods. And she turns. And walks away. 

Mickey’s focus drops to the baby in his arms. His big blue eyes and lopsided mouth with fat heavy cheeks. His tiny delicate fingers wrapped tight around Mickey’s. 

He feels himself smile down at his baby brother, “just fuckin’ hope you look kinda enough like me to pass this shit off, huh? Ain’t no one else’s business anyway, is it?”

His tiny arm jerks in one of those spastic baby movements that sends Mickey’s finger right into his little puckered lips. He gets the first taste of whatever the fuck is still lingering on his skin and squints up his eyes, pulling the finger away and blinking before a tiny cry that sounds more like a cat than a human parts his lips.

“What was that, huh? Sure don’t beat suckin’ a nipple, does it?”

His face squishes up and turns red, “I won’t make you call me Dad either. Mick’s fine. ‘Less you want to call me Dad. Guess I don’t give a fuck.”

He’s focused on something clearly more important than Mickey’s voice, looks like a tomato about to burst in Mickey’s arms. And Mickey don’t know much about babies, but he knows what’s comin’, “alright kid, I got ya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “But I'm strong  
> Strong enough to carry him  
> He ain't heavy, he's my brother”  
> Songwriters: Bob Russell / Bobby Scott  
> He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother lyrics © Music Sales Corporation
> 
> Yeah, I don't know. I pretty much just couldn't sleep this morning and this happened instead. So apparently right now having four documents going on my desktop at all times is just the norm. I'm not planning on going anywhere with this one, we can still pretend it fits in with the rest of canon. Maybe Mickey waits until Terry is dead to tell Yev the truth. Or maybe the truth stays with Mickey and Svet only for the rest of their lives. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! You know the drill - kudos, comments appreciated! Share it. Or light it on fire, put it out by pissing on it. Makes no never mind to me :)


	2. Fire Ants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a stand-alone, one-shot that takes place when Ian approaches Mickey after his rape. Wrote this one awhile ago and the formatting has been bothering me ever since. So I thought I'd fix the formatting and add it to this work, collect canon one-shots here. 
> 
> Mickey Milkovich doesn't get to blurt out how he feels every minute. Maybe just once he does. Ian Gallagher does get to blurt out how he feels pretty much whenever he wants. Maybe this time he doesn't. And maybe he should have. 
> 
> The page breaks are bouncing back and forth between 3x6 and 3x7(?) - the one in the abandoned buildings.
> 
> WARNING: It's about 3x6 so yes, there's rape. The scene being fixed is 3x7 before the face kicking event.

Fire Ants

 

‘I can’t stop thinking about it.’

‘Would you at least look at me?’

His right foot is on the top stair. His left rising to move. To leave. When he hears it. So faintly. Just barely above a whisper, “I can’t stop feeling it.”

And he stops. He’s not certain he was even meant to hear it. Standing still, waiting. 

Firing the handgun again. Again. A shaky inhale, “a million fire ants under my skin.”

Firing. Again. Silence. 

‘I can’t stop thinking about it,’ I. Me. It was never about me. It was all about me. Fuck.

Silence. Ian turns his head, slowly. Watching Mickey’s jaw clenching. Unclenching. Taking stance and firing again. A shaky exhale, “doesn’t matter how hard I scrub. It won’t stop.”

‘I can’t stop thinking about it,’ I. Me. 

‘Would you at least look at me?’ Why? So you can see the pity? So you can see the memory of my face, of the way I watched? The way I sat helpless and watched? One single, lone, solitary trickle of blood on my face, dripped down to my chest. While you were beat. Again. Again. By the guy that’s supposed to protect you. Supposed to take care of you. Supposed to care for you. 

His hands are shaking this time when he raises the gun to aim. Holding. Standing ready, but not firing. Silence. 

\--------

Everybody around here has shitty dads. And Ian has heard the stories. From Mandy. Little things here and there. He has seen the old man passed out drunk. Heard him yelling. Has seen the finger shaped bruises on Mandy’s arm. She never told. He never asked. 

Everybody around here has a shitty dad.

‘She’s gonna fuck the faggot outta you.’

Everybody around here has a shitty dad.

Fuck. His breath catches in his chest. The sound it made. The sound when the steel hit Mickey’s face. The way his body went lax, his eyes glazed. 

But everybody around here has a shitty dad. 

‘Send the Russian.’

Fuck. Fuck. He just sat there. He just sat there and watched. What was he supposed to do? What could he have possibly done?

‘I can’t stop thinking about it.’

The couch. That couch. Watching a movie. Drinking beer. The pizza rolls were still warm, the movie barely started, the cigarette barely smoked when Mickey was suddenly in Ian’s lap. Facing him. Knees pressed in tight against his hips. Lips. Kisses. Fuck, those kisses. Of course it would be another thing Mickey was good at. Kissing. A little shy at first. Like he was afraid Ian would shove him away. Ian’s hands came down on his hips, he flinched. Too much. That’s okay. Hands on the couch next to him. Take it slow. Take it so slow. Follow his lead. Let him lead.

Ian never cared before Mickey. He never cared if his partner got off. He never wanted to touch Kash. Or Ned. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about the random hook-ups at school or ROTC guys. They wanted his dick, so they got it. If they needed to jerk themselves, well that was their problem. But Mickey. He wanted to touch Mickey. He wanted to touch him everywhere. Until his hands were imprinted on his pale smooth flesh. But Mickey would twist away. He would growl a, ‘don’t fuckin’ touch me’ and if Ian tried any amount of foreplay, it was, ‘you think I’m some kinda chick? Needs fondling and shit, just get on me.’

It hurt. It had to hurt. To just get right to it. But if Ian held still, if he waited for Mickey to get used to him, he’d get a, ‘what are you fuckin’ waitin’ for Gallagher?’

He’d take it. He took it every time. Like it was some kind of punishment. Something that was supposed to be painful. Like maybe he could convince himself he didn’t like it, he wasn’t supposed to like it. Ian hated that. He wanted Mickey to feel good. To feel so good, like he’d never felt anything until he’d felt the nearness, but the nearness was suffocating to him. 

‘He isn’t afraid to kiss me’, fuck. Mickey was afraid to kiss him. He had good fucking reason for it. But Ian didn’t see it, didn’t realize it. He wanted to force Mickey to feel things that he was terrified of feeling.

But that night. Sitting on the couch with Mickey in his lap. Kissing. Kissing like the entire world had slipped away around them. And it didn’t matter. Mickey was kissing him. Really kissing him. Lips, tongues, teeth. Heat, the taste of beer and cigarettes in his saliva. It was incredible. Ian loved it. He loved every single swirl of his tongue. He was tasting and feeling Mickey. And was certain that Mickey was feeling it too. Feeling, his hands rising to press on Mickey’s back, draw him nearer. But he resisted. His own hands coming up to press away, landing on Ian’s chest like cinder blocks. The way they always felt. Hard, unyielding, rough. Pushing away. Always pushing while Ian pulled. 

Just stay here Mick, just stay here, let me touch you, let me hold you, just stay here. I won’t hurt you, I don’t want to hurt you.  
But he dropped his hands anyway. Too much. It was too much. He had to just let Mickey take the lead. He had to follow. Fuck, he’d follow Mickey off the edge of the universe if he’d keep kissing him like that. 

\--------

He’s just standing there now. Looking at the gun. Looking at it with a blank stare. Numbness taking over his expression. Dead-eyed, watching the gun. Thinking it over. Fuck, Mick. Don’t. Don’t even think about it. Don’t even think about turning that fucking gun around. Please. Please don’t be thinking about that.

\--------

The third try to touch, the third try to bring him closer. I’m just a guy who wants your ass. That’s all Mick. I’m just a guy who wants to fuck you from behind, I don’t want to look at you, or touch you, or kiss you. I just want your ass. That’s your comfort zone. It’s the intimacy that freaks you out. So I’m just a guy who wants your ass. Sliding a hand under the edge of his jeans. A finger just resting, just trailing down his crack. That’s all, just a guy who wants your ass. 

Not pulling away. Not this time. Hands still flat on Ian’s chest. Still stiff and strong. Unmoving. Fuck, Mick move your hands. Let your hands start the work. Come on Mick, please. Please touch me. Come on. 

Have you ever been hugged Mickey? Have you ever had someone lay a tender hand on your forehead when you’re feeling feverish? Have you ever had someone rub your shoulder blade when you’re feeling nervous? Have you ever had someone wrap their arms around you just because you were within reach? I want to do those things. I want to be the person to do those things. 

Hand, rising, tracing the curve of his spine. Tension following Ian’s hand, but he doesn’t push away. He stays. Stopping when his palm is resting against the back of his neck. Laying a handprint there, right there. Warm, gentle. Just resting, just leaving the swirls and lines of his palm against his tender skin. That’s all. That’s all Mick. Just a guy who wants your ass. And wants to rest a hand on the back of your neck. That’s all. 

\--------

Ian stands still. Watching. Wanting to walk over. Reach out. Touch him. Hold him. Force his way past the brick wall that Mickey had built around himself. Since the day he was born he’d been working on that wall. Brick and mortar. Brick and mortar until it was so high no one could climb it. Until it was so wide no could get around it. Until it was so sturdy there was no way to knock it down. 

A million fire ants. Can’t scrub it way. His eyes water but he bites it back. This isn’t his to cry over. This isn’t his. His pain. His fear. Not his. 

\--------

He had been so eager to rip off Ian’s clothes that first time they hooked up. But since then it had all been done with shirts on, with pants around the ankles or knees. With more covered than bare. Almost always from behind. The few times it wasn’t, then Mickey’s eyes were closed. Closed tight. Expressionless face. Hands on his own dick, not letting Ian touch him. Not letting Ian rub him into satisfaction. Never letting Ian be anything more than just a guy who wanted his ass. 

He had covered his hand once. One time in the back of the store. He had felt that crack. Like stepping on an iced over puddle. A tiny crack on a smooth surface. Not shattering. Just cracking. Just a tiny fissure in the mortar. And then Kash walked in. 

He takes a deep breath when Ian’s hand moves from the crack of his ass. Over his hip, lingering at his belt. He wants it. He wants it so badly. But he’s going to be patient. Mickey’s lead. It’s Mickey’s lead. If he pushes too hard, if it’s too much, then he’ll retreat. This will be just like every other time. Bent over. Taking it from behind. Grunting and biting his tongue. Twisting away from Ian’s hands. Pushing back against him but nothing else. Just a guy who wants his ass pounded. And Ian is just a guy who wants his ass. And his mouth. That’s all. And to rest his hand on the back of his neck. That’s all. 

Those hands, those ones that Ian has imagined on his flesh, trailing over every inch of his flesh; they’re still. Still on his chest. Unmoving and unrelenting. I’ll wait, I can wait Mick. I can wait until you want it. Until you want my hands. I can do that. 

The heat that’s rising in Ian’s chest, wound up in his belly, it’s rolling into a slow boil. It’s rising, and he feels it in Mick’s cheeks when he pulls back from the kisses. Leaning his forehead in, resting it against Ian’s. A deep breath. It trembles. 

You ever been kissed Mick? Like really kissed? Like the way you just kissed me? 

Breathing against each other’s faces. Lingering. The world starting to seep back into Ian’s senses. The smell of cigarettes. And pizza rolls that are getting cold now. The sound of the movie. Ian can’t guess at how long they’ve been sitting here now. Sitting here like this. But he’s not ready for it to be over. He’s not ready for Mickey to get up. To walk away. But he is. He’s tilting his head towards his bedroom. With one eyebrow arched. And where Ian felt so warm and so connected to that body in his lap, that solid body against his, those warm lips, those cinderblock hands; he now feels dread. A strange dread. Like he had chinked his way through some mortar by waiting, by not forcing Mickey to touch and feel. But now Mickey was in his room, putting new mortar in his wall. Filling that gap. He’d tell him to just fuck him already, to just hurry up and fuck him. Ian didn’t want that. He didn’t want to fuck. He wanted to love. He wanted to look, he wanted to stare, drink in Mickey’s every line and scar, every hair and freckle, every blemish and every smooth milky pale inch of flesh. He wanted to touch. He wanted to leave a handprint, a hundred handprints, a thousand handprints. He wanted to kiss, press his lips against Mick’s neck, against his chest. He wanted to lick and suck, he wanted to fondle and explore. He wanted to spend the entire night exploring and discovering. Exploring Mickey and discovering himself. Smashing that brick and mortar to pieces. Sweeping every single fucking piece of it away and never allowing Mick to build it back up. 

He stands. Grabs his beer, lights a cigarette and makes his way to the bedroom. The bedroom where he knows this will turn into the same old thing. The same old thing where Mickey can’t bear to be touched. Where Ian’s hands are wounding, harming a body that has already been so harmed. Harmed by life, by father, by mother, by brothers, by life. Life. Ian grew up in the same shitty neighborhood, had shitty parents. But his landing was cushioned by a gentle hand that was Fiona, always keeping a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. Always setting aside her own life to make sure they were okay, they were together, they were safe. By a demanding presence that was Lip, a presence that forced him to see things for what they were but know there were ways around it if he was crafty enough. And Frank. Fuck Frank. But at least he wasn’t Terry. 

He nearly drops the beer when he walks in the bedroom. Holy fuck Mick, he wants to say it, he wants to say, holy fuck Mick you’re gorgeous. You’re so fucking gorgeous. As he’s standing in the middle of the room completely naked. Dim light on, but bright enough to see everything. Every single thing. And every single thing is gorgeous. 

‘Took you long enough firecrotch,’ that eyebrow up as he scans him over. Looking at his clothing with disdain. 

Holy fuck Mick, I don’t know if I can handle this. This, you. You are…

Taking the steps near. Grabbing the beer from Ian’s hand and plopping it down on the dresser. Grabbing the lit cigarette, pinching it gently between his own lips as he takes hold of the hem of Ian’s shirt. Over his head it goes. Over his head and onto the floor. Belt, button, fly. Down they go. Watching Mickey take a puff of smoke as he steps out of his jeans. Exhaling out of the corner of his mouth, smashing the cigarette out before he steps towards Ian. His fingers taking a gentle hold on Ian’s chin, tilting him down. Those rough, strong fingers guiding him down. Down to those warm soft lips. Fuck, tingles already rising up his spine, raging up his neck, the back of his head. 

Take it slow. Take it slow Ian. Don’t rush this, don’t force intimacy. Let him lead. Let him lead. Fuck, his hands dart out without his permission. Taking a firm grip on Mick’s hips. Pulling him near. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t draw back. 

He feels a brick falling away, a tiny opening in Mickey’s wall. 

The kisses that were tender just a moment ago, the kisses that were hesitant and timid. They’re growing in passion. Desperation.  
Scorching. Please Mick. Please don’t ever stop this. Please don’t ever pull away. Please stay. Please don’t turn around. Please, let’s do this right. I won’t hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you. I promise I’ll never hurt you. 

\--------

The echo of a gunshot jars Ian back to today. To right now. To Mickey firing the gun again. His heart leaps as he watches the stuffing explode out of a teddy bear. 

His face twists. He’s out of ammo. Now what? Now what Mick? You ready to talk? You ready to look at me?

Thumb and forefinger jabbing into his eyes. FUCK. He sees it so clearly. He sees it. ‘Fucked for life anyway’. But you’re not. You’re not Mickey. You’re everything that is beautiful and perfect in this world. And this fucking world is trying to take that away from you. You are a big heart hiding behind a giant fucking brick wall. And I want to rip that fucking wall down every single time you build it back up. But I can’t do it alone. And I built it up around you that morning, I watched you as we tore those bricks down the night before. Brick for brick until all that was left was you and me. You and me. But the next morning. I fucked up. I did that. I picked up those bricks and put them back. I laid down the mortar. I did that. And I’m so fucking sorry. I should have done a hundred things differently. 

\--------

His face is full of Mickey and his hands are full of Mickey and he can’t hold himself back any longer but he wants this to drag on for eternity. He ran a finger across every single scar on his beautiful body. He kissed trails across every single surface of warm flesh. He laid his ear down on his chest and listened to his heart beating. Thud, thud, thud. He listened to him breathing, he felt his chest expand and contract with a breath. A deep breath. A gentle breath as Ian slowly pushed inside him. And lingered. He held still. And listened as Mickey breathed again. 

Raising his head, leaning over him to watch his eyes. To look at his eyes, his gorgeous eyes that are already glazing over with pleasure.  
Fuck, Mick you’re gorgeous. He wants to say it. He wants to say it over and over and over until Mickey finally believes it. But he can’t. He can’t get a single word to come out of his mouth. 

He can’t move. He can’t because if he does, it’ll be over that quickly. It’ll be over. And Mickey smiles. He smiles so deeply, so tenderly while his hand slips across Ian’s back, his neck, the back of his head. Pulling him down, guiding him towards his lips. His perfect, plumped and swollen, sore, tender lips. 

Fuck. Fuck, it’s over. Ian shudders hard. Fuck. It’s too late. 

But Mickey doesn’t release his lips. His fingertips pressing gently into his skull, begging him to just keep going. To just keep pushing past the overstimulation and the sensitivity. To just keep going. Keep going. He’s begging with his tongue and his lips. And his hand on the back of his head. And his hand on his lower back, dropping to his asscheek, pressing against him. Pressing him as close as possible. 

He is pulling. He is finally pulling instead of pushing. And his hands don’t feel like cinder blocks anymore. And his body is so fucking warm and relaxed. His expression is so open. The fog in his eyes, like he’s never felt pain in his life. Like he’s only ever felt pleasure, like it’s all he will feel for the rest of his life. 

I will never hurt you. I never want to hurt you. I love you.

And those bricks. That cracked mortar. It’s falling to the floor around them. It’s smashed into tiny little pieces. It’ll never be rebuilt again. 

And I promise I will never hurt you.

\--------

He watches the angry energy. Clenched jaw. Clenched fists. 

He wants to say his name. He wants to remind him he’s there. He’s not alone. He wants to walk over, wrap his arms around him. 

Tell him, just tell him. That you love him. 

But Mickey is burning with a million fire ants crawling under his skin. And the heat of a touch will only liven them.

So he watches. Watches as Mickey’s hands rise to his face. Knuckling his nose. His bruised face. Some starting to yellow and fade. But still raw. Still tender. Ian’s chest tightens when he sees his fingers run along the bruise on his cheekbone. Pushing into the pain. Pushing against it. Forcing more. More pain. But no pain will ever be enough. Nothing will ever be enough for the punishment he’s decided he deserves. He deserves a punishment for feeling. For allowing himself to feel. For allowing that brick wall to come down. To bear it all. 

And now Mickey is alone. Whether Ian is standing here or not. He was alone that morning. Slumped on the couch, watching Ian as the whore rode him. Watching him, begging him to see. See me. See me Ian. See me. 

\--------

“Holy fuck,” he collapses on top of Mickey for the third time, “Jesus Mick,” he can’t catch his breath. He can’t see that gorgeous face through the spots in his eyes. Blindly nosing his way into Mickey’s neck. A deep breath. That scent. God he loves that scent. He should just say it. He should just say, I love you. I love you. Lifting his head. Being met by a pair of eyes that are half gone. Oblivion. Complete sexual oblivion. So he doesn’t say anything. He smiles, pressing a soft kiss against his lips. Until he starts feeling that push. Just a touch of it. Just a little push. Too much. It’s too much. 

Deep breath, rolling away onto his back. 

Listening to Mickey breathe. Listening as it calms. As it scales back to normal breathing. 

Silence. No words. He’s expecting an, ‘alright Gallagher, get the fuck out of my bed’. Or, ‘you start snorin’ I’ll cut your tongue out’.  
Instead he’s shocked breathless when Mickey’s head lands on his chest. His hand, seemingly melting against Ian’s ribs. It feels nothing like cinder block. It feels like it’s burning a brand into Ian’s flesh. There were coals inside that body and tonight, Ian had stirred them back into flames. 

\--------

Pacing. Pacing. Back and forth. Avoiding eye contact. Breath coming out in angry puffs of air. Ian had placed his handprints on every surface of that body, wishing it could cover the scars. Wishing it could drown the pain that had caused those scars. Erase the past. Force him to see how much he was loved. But Ian didn’t say it. And he can’t say it now. 

I don’t want to hurt you Mick. I didn’t want to hurt you. I can’t stand seeing you hurt. I love you. 

\--------

He woke up spooning him. His back radiating heat against Ian’s chest. A layer of sweat between them. So much heat, the guy was on fire. He was burning a hole through Ian’s skin. But Ian didn’t move. He loved that heat. He loved it spreading through his body. He’d never need a blanket, even in the coldest of winter nights, if he had Mickey. And he’d never need drugs or booze if he woke every morning to that scent. Intoxicating scent. Swirling through his mind, making him forget everything else in this world. 

He didn’t look back at Ian when he stepped out of bed. Watching as he stepped into a dirty pair of boxers on the floor. Ian should have reached out. Taken hold of his wrist. Pulled him back in. But he didn’t. 

Sitting next to each other on the couch. Playing a video game, eating cereal. Silence, but it was comfortable silence. Ian should have sat closer. Rested a leg against Mick’s. But he didn’t. 

And when Mickey cocked an eyebrow at him and asked, ‘one more for the road firecrotch?’ He should have said no. No Mick, not one more for the road. I’m not going anywhere. Fuck work. Fuck the group home. Fuck the entire rest of the world. The only thing that matters is right here. Right here in front of me. And I’m not leaving it. I’m never leaving it. But he didn’t. 

‘You shove ‘em in my ass and pull ‘em out real slow’, so much trust in his face. So much fucking trust in his face. And hope. The hope that Ian would see it. See that he was putting himself out there by asking. By trusting. By wondering, can you pleasure me selflessly and trust me to return the favor later? Can you be the first person in my life that I can trust? Can you be the first person in my life that doesn’t want to hurt me? That wants to see me happy?

‘What’s in it for me?’ 

You fucking idiot. You fucking idiot. What’s in it for you? What, huh? Seeing that blissed out half-mad pleasure in those eyes. Seeing that comfort, that trust, that openness. Putting his body completely in your hands. Seeing that glaze again. The one you saw last night. Lighting that fire. And letting it burn. Letting it fucking burn until you’re both engulfed in flames. 

And he should have grabbed the beads. And grabbed Mickey. And shoved him towards his bedroom. He should have locked the door behind them and shoved every single fucking bead he wanted up his ass. And pulled them out so fucking slow it would take half the fucking day. And if he wanted more he should have given him more. But he didn’t. 

Instead he shoved his shoulder. Steering him to take the position. The position for the guy who wants nothing more than his ass.  
Just your ass Mick. That’s all I want. All I want is my dick in your ass. That’s your comfort zone anyway, right? So just turn around, I’ll shove it in. That’s all I want. And that’s all you’re worth. All you’re worth to anybody, just like you’ve convinced yourself. I’m not going to caress. I’m not going to touch. Just press in. Feel you pushing back. And I’ll press anyway. I’ll make this quick, I’ll rush this.  
I’ll pick up those fucking bricks and start handing them back to you. With every single thing that I should have done but didn’t do. I’ll give you a brick back. And start putting up that fucking wall. I’ll lay the mortar myself. 

\--------

His knees give out beneath him and his butt lands squarely on the floor of this gutted building. Watching Mickey’s temper break. Ripping the rest of the teddy bear to shreds. Then punching the wall. Again and again. Leaving streaks and fireworks of red on the wall. 

Mickey will make it physical. He will make this pain inside of him physical. Make is something visible. Something that has a timeframe. Blood, bruises, fractures. Scabbing over, fading from red to purple to blue to green to yellow. Scabs sloughing off, new skin rebuilding. Recreating itself tougher than it was before. Every new layer stronger than the old. 

A scab eventually falls off. Fades completely from memory. 

\--------

‘Ride him until he likes it’. 

Those eyes, the ones that were so full of bliss last night, begging. Begging, please see me Ian. Please see me. Don’t see this. Instead see what this has done to me. See that this is my life. This is my life. And this is why. This is exactly why I push you away. This is exactly why I act like you don’t matter. Like all we have between us is sex. Please see it.

But Ian didn’t see it. All he saw was that broken face. That resignation in his body. Grabbing her and turning her over. Taking control to prove it. Prove he’s not a faggot. Prove it to his dad. And to himself. And to Ian. 

‘You’re nothing but a warm mouth to me’, but Ian never believed that. Because Mickey never believed that. He didn’t believe it when he said it and he certainly didn’t believe it when he punched that cop to put himself behind bars again. Protecting himself from himself. And from his father.

What could he have done? 

He threw himself on his father’s back, yanking him off Ian. Forcing him to turn his rage on his son. Because Terry could do whatever he wanted to his son, he could beat him and break him, but he wasn’t allowed to touch Ian. Not as long as Mick was breathing. 

How many times had Terry hit him, kicked him, screamed at him; and he took it? He just took his beatings every single time and never fought back. He’d never fight back. His father smashed the shells of his babies before they were ready to hatch. Dragged them out of their safety, threw their helpless bodies into the dirt and watched them struggle. Watched them struggle to survive. And every time they’d gain strength of their own, he’d kick more dirt at them. But they knew, they knew never to fight back. They were trained to stay still and take it. Take their beatings. Accept their lot in life. Never try to fly. Never try to stray too far from the nest. They belonged to him. They were his to beat, bruise, and bloody. They knew better than to question that.

Ian bit his knuckle and tried not to scream. Watching those asscheeks, peppered with pellets, scars that would always be there. Always. And the one in his thigh. From Kash. 

He tried not to scream and he tried not to cry. He sat still and forced himself not to drag Mickey off the whore. Not to go for the baseball bat by the door. Swing at Terry’s head until it he was nothing but broken skull and blood. 

He forced himself to sit still and watch. Because there was Terry. Pointing the gun at him. The sneer on his face, watch this faggot, watch this. Memorize this. This is what happens if you come near my son again. Milkoviches aren’t faggots. My kids are my property. My property and I do what I wish with them. What I say goes. And no son of mine will be a faggot. 

Then it was over. Mickey was lying limply against the whore. The whore was being strangely gentle in removing him from her. It wasn’t her fault. She had been called over to do a job. She had a gun shoved in her face. She was told to do her job. Even though the boy was bloody and destroyed. She had to do her job. And now she’s helping him pull his boxers up. And she’s pulling her dress down. 

Terry’s aiming at Ian once again, growling, ‘get the fuck out of here faggot.’

And Mickey doesn’t move. His eyes don’t rise. His body slumped against the couch. The couch where he had sat on Ian’s lap, kissing him like it was the finest thing he had ever done. Taking bricks out of his wall, letting them fall to the ground carelessly. Letting himself show. Letting himself feel. 

Ian can’t stop watching his nearly lifeless form now. And he can barely get himself to walk out that door. Clothes in his hands, finishing pulling them on before he descends the porch steps. The whore leaving behind him. 

Numb. Completely numb. Walking. Where? Home? To Fiona? If he goes home, he’ll tell her what happened. He’ll seek comfort in a person he can confide in. To the group home? To Lip? To make up some kind of excuse as to why he’d have a bruise on his temple. To hide the shaking in his hands and the quaking in his guts. Where? Find Mandy? Tell her everything because she was the first person outside of family to truly accept his homosexuality and help him hide his secret. What’s he going to tell her? That he loves her brother? And her brother is at home right now probably getting even more of a beating from their father. And he’s probably so broken now he’ll never come out from behind that brick wall again. He’s just been raped and abused and all Ian could do was stare. And feel disgust and pity, and hope it didn’t show in his face. Hope Mickey didn’t see it in his face and think it was him. It was him that Ian was disgusted with. 

Never. Never, Mick. I’ll never be disgusted by you. I love you. 

He pulls open the door to the Kash N Grab. And walks in. Like nothing is weird. Like nothing happened. And when Linda opens her mouth to chew him out for being late, he looks at her. And she stops. She doesn’t ask. It’s the Southside. Everyone knows. Everyone knows that blood and pain are normal days here. So no one asks anymore. They expect it. Your boss expects that you’ll show up to work with a trickle of blood on your face. And it’s not weird. Your group home manager expects that you’ll check back in at the end of the day with a bruise starting to form. And it’s not out of the ordinary. And by morning when your brother tilts his head for an explanation you’ll just shrug. Maybe mumble something about dinking too much and not remembering. And he won’t ask for more. Because it’s normal. It’s Southside. 

And when people see Mickey. When they see his broken face. They won’t ask. They’ll shrug and think, ‘fuckin’ kid deserved it’, or ‘fucker must have been runnin’ his mouth again’. Might snicker and think, ‘finally Terry put him in his place’. He’s just a Milkovich. No one cares. No one worries. Not a soul, even his own sister, won’t think he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t bring it on himself. That was always the way. It was never Terry’s fault. His actions were only responses. Always. 

\--------

He’s stopped. Palms pressed flat against the wall. Knuckles split, red blood leaking out of his flesh. Ribcage heaving with exertion and overwhelming emotions that he’s just going to keep forcing away. Forcing them down. But if the salt of tears mingles with the salt of sweat, then it never existed. 

He’s looking at the ground near his feet. The black button eye of the teddy bear that is nothing but bits of stuffing and chunks of fur scattered all over the bones of an old building. 

“It was the only birthday present I ever got.”

He’d been ignoring Ian’s presence for so long that Ian was nearly convinced he wasn’t truly here anymore. Maybe this was some dream and he wasn’t actually sitting here watching the guy he loves self-destruct while he once again did nothing. What could he do?

“I tried to steal it. I was five. Ms Bodnar caught me before I could walk out of the store with it. She called my mom. My mom smacked me upside the head and told me I didn’t deserve a teddy bear. She beat my ass black and blue with a wooden spoon when we got home. Sent me to bed without dinner for the next three nights. Iggy’s dumb ass was,” his voice cuts off, hand rising to wipe at the tears that aren’t falling. Clearing his throat, “Iggy’s dumb ass stole it. Snuck it into my room on my birthday, told me to keep it hidden. Never let Dad see it. Never let Mom see it. I kept it under my bed. Shoved in the far back behind old shoes and clothes. It was the only nice thing anybody ever did for me. And I couldn’t even,” breath catching, barely above a whisper now, “couldn’t even enjoy it.”

It doesn’t feel like a brick coming down. It feels like the mortar hardening. Locking one more into place. 

His butt hits the floor hard. Facing the wall. Back towards Ian. Fuck, he’s so broken his survival instincts are falling out of place. Back to the entrance. Mickey never leaves his back to the doorway. Ian’s stomach twists when he realizes Mick just doesn’t care anymore. Survival isn’t something he cares about anymore. 

He has the black button eye in one hand and a piece of fur in the other. Falling to his side on the floor. Littered with empty casings, cigarette butts, rocks, broken glass. He doesn’t notice. Or doesn’t care. Any of those things digging into the bare flesh of his arms would feel better than the army of biting fire ants relentlessly tearing him apart. 

Ian needs to go. He needs to get back to help his family now. They need him. He should get up and leave. There’s no use in staying here. Just watching a brick wall being built. Higher. Wider. Stronger than the last. The last one. The one Ian had taken down. Brick by brick.

But something is forcing him to stay. To sit here. Glued to the floor in this rotted out building. In this decayed and discarded structure. The skin, muscle, flesh all ripped away. Only thing left of it is bones. 

Bones. Gutted. Destroyed. Neglected to the point of no return. 

Fuck. His eyes scan over the back that he had his hands pressed down on the other morning when the door swung open. Hands, half fisted, not a single gentle thing about it. Only using the body in front of him for what it was worth. Hurrying to leave. To get back. To get out of that house. And away from him. 

That’s how it must have felt. 

His breath hitches. Ian’s chest feels tight and heavy. But he gets up. He takes the steps over. There’s barely enough room between Mickey and the wall he’s facing. Barely enough room for Ian to lay down facing him. Not touching. That would be too much. It would be too much. 

His bloody swollen hands between them. One thumb trailing back and forth, back and forth over the black button. Eyes void. Heavy black bags under them. If he’d even tried to sleep in the last few days it would have been interrupted by those fire ants. Or the throbbing in his head. Or the screaming in his brain. The screaming. 

Ian watches a single tear escape. He watches it travel from the corner of his deadened eye. Trailing down his temple. His bruised and scabbed skin. 

He feels one. One tear escaping his own eye. And he feels his hand. Reaching out without his permission. Landing on the broken glass near Mickey’s. Brushing his fingertips. Just barely brushing his fingertips. He can’t feel any heat radiating off his body. That fire has been put out. 

I’m here Mick. I’m right here. And I’m just a guy who wants to brush your fingertips. Nothing more. I’m not going to make you talk. I’m not going to make you look at me. I’m just going to lay here. Lay here with you. I’m just a guy who wants to lay here with you. Because I love you. And I see you. I do see you. Has anyone ever loved you before Mick? Has anyone ever said those words to you? Anyone? 

What would happen if I did? If I said it? If I said it right now? If I said, I love you, I love you, I love you every single moment for exactly who you are. I love you and I won’t push you away. I love you and I will never be disgusted by you. I love you and I will be right here brushing your fingertips with my own until you can reach out. Until you can reach out and grip my hand. Whenever you’re ready Mick. Whenever you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize I'm giving Ian more perception and patience than is probably possible for a teenage boy. But what if he did give Mickey the space to come to terms with his own emotions without pushing him? Would it change the course of their relationship?
> 
> I also realize that it was some kind of doll that he was shooting at. But it's a teddy bear for the sake of my backstory. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Leave kudos, they're my payment for my time spent posting :)
> 
> There, now I have some room for more works. I might add the other one-shots here too, but I'm not sure yet, because those might be added to. We'll see.


	3. Living On The Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't normally invade Ian's headspace this intensely (mostly for personal reasons) so be mindful of the fact that this is an extension of 5x10 dugout scene and it's occurring in Ian's mind. And most of you probably prefer to think of this scene as a smut-filled adventure. But this is mostly melancholy smut. That's a thing. Or love.

Living On The Sand

 

He’s taking his jacket off. And that should be enough. That should be enough to get my blood racing and my skin tingling and my thoughts heading in one direction and one direction only. That should be enough. That should be enough.

It should be enough to remind me of that boy. The one with the stars in his eyes and a future. The one who came back here that one time they banged, that one time they banged. That idiotic boy who thought he’d make it to West Point. That one who thought that after eighteen years of living a fucked up life in the Southside with a fucked up crew of siblings only made fucked up by their fucked up parents, that after eighteen years of that, he’d make it out. He’d be worth something, worth something that no paper certificate could ever capture. Could ever explain. Could ever do justice to. 

My eyes linger on the blood drying on his face when he leans out of the kiss, the first kiss in so long, the first kiss I remember, the first kiss I feel. I feel it. I have to feel it. Because if I don’t feel this then I feel nothing. I feel nothing. 

His hands, his FUCK U-UP hands that are always telling the truth, always telling the fucking truth. He’ll fuck me up, he’ll fuck me up so bad and leave me so hurt and so alone only to come back, only to bring me back, take me back. Because he loves me and maybe that fucked me up more than anything else he’s ever done to me. Maybe his love is too much and maybe his coldness is too much and maybe my prying and forcing is too much. And maybe we’ll always be too much. 

FUCK U-UP is on my belt buckle and that should be enough. That should be enough. That should be more than enough. That should be all I need. To boil the blood through my veins and rip a chill down my spine. And send my thoughts swirling towards one thing and one thing only.

But that boy is still standing over there. By the bar we used for pull-ups. He’s still standing there. And he’s got dreams in his eyes too big for this dugout and too big for this ball field and too big for the Southside and too big for the man who’s head is leaning against mine now. His forehead is leaning against mine now. And the blood is dry. And the dreams are too big for this whole fucking city.

I’m sick of your pussy, whiny shit. I don’t need a fucking caretaker, alright? I need the bitch-slapping, shit-talking piece of Southside trash I fell for. 

I don’t need a caretaker. I don’t need a caretaker. I don’t need a caretaker.

His lips are on mine again. He tastes like cigarettes and beer. And blood. And it should be enough. It should be more than enough. It should be more than enough to send fire hurling through my body and electricity zapping in the air around us. It should be more than enough to drag my mind to one thing and one thing only.

But it’s not. And he knows that.

That boy is standing closer now. He’s standing here and he’s watching me. He’s looking at me like he knows me but he doesn’t recognize me. He looking at me like he knows me and he hates me and he hates what he’s become. He’s looking at me like it’s my fault. He’s looking at me like it’s my fault. It’s all my fault. 

Like I’m the one that ran off and put his future in jeopardy. Like I’m the one that ran away from the Southside and the life and the family and the love. Like I’m the one that couldn’t handle it when the shit got too rough. Like I’m the one that wanted to, wanted to… wanted to destroy it all.

I swallow and it tastes like him. And it should be enough. It should be enough. It should be more than enough. More than enough to torch my soul and scorch my flesh and send my thoughts to one place and one place only. But it’s not.

That boy is walking out on the field now. He’s smiling. He’s smiling in the night because he just kissed a constellation of possibilities against that pale flesh that he’s afraid to touch but he can’t stop touching because it is the poison in his veins and the anecdote in his pocket. 

I open my eyes and I see him. Mickey. Him. With blood drying on his face and a sparkle in his eye. A sparkle I haven’t seen since… since… I take a deep breath and feel his hair between my fingers. 

Just suck it hard, you faggot.

My hands drop to his belt and my lips land on his. My ears hear the sound of his buckle and it should be enough. It should be enough. It should be more than enough to hijack my senses and kill my doubt and my violence and my hatred. 

But it’s not.

And he knows that.

It never will be.

I never will be.

My mouth trails away from his, down his neck and over his undershirt, nudging it out of the way with my nose when I get to his jeans. Leaving a path of lips across the band of his boxers. The ground is cold on my knees, his flesh is warm under my hand and in my mouth. But it can’t stifle the cold grasp on the back of my neck. The cold grasp that’s been there since, since… since then. The cold grasp that slowly makes it's way to the front of my neck, to the front. Every day, every day since… since… since then. 

His hands are tender. HIs hands are tender and it should be enough. It should be enough. It should be more than enough.

His gasp is harsh. His gasp is harsh and it should be enough. It should be enough. It should be more than enough. 

I get to my feet, my mouth leading the way up his body. HIs body is warm. His body is warm and it should be enough. It should be enough.

My lips meet his and it should be enough. It should be enough. It should be more than enough.

I can feel him pulling away. Pulling away to turn around. He’s going to turn around and it won’t be enough. That won’t be enough. Enough to apologize, enough to care, enough to love. And I need to love. I need to love. I need to feel love. I need to taste love. I need it, I need it to zap my nerves back to life and my brain back to life and my desire back to… life.

Life. Life? Life is… life is… life is… that boy is in the outfield. He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans, his hair is short and his smile is certain. It’s hot as balls and the future is waiting. The future is right there at his fingertips. And his fingertips are right here. His fingertips are right here, resting on black hair and pale flesh and his future is right here and he hates me for it. He hates me like I had a choice. Like I chose this. Like I had a choice. 

I take a deep breath and I smell him on the air and he’s right here against my face and he hasn’t turned yet and I can’t let him turn. I can’t let him turn. There’s an S word on the tip of my tongue, stuck to the roof of my mouth and I’m not sure if it’s ‘sorry’ or ‘stay’ or ‘shit’. But he darts into me and he swallows it all before it can unstick itself from my beer and blood flavored saliva. 

Fucked for life. Fucked for life. Fucked for life. But I can’t tell that boy, I can’t tell him anything. I can’t tell him this. I can’t tell him he’s not. It would be a fucking lie.

There is one thing I can tell him. There is one thing only I can tell him. I can tell him this, “sorry,” and it can jumble itself in his mouth against mine and get tangled in his beer and cig and blood flavored saliva with undertones of me on his tongue. 

And I can’t say this, I can’t say this. I can’t say, “stay,” because then he will. Then he will and he can’t understand it when it’s jumbled in his mouth and he can’t hear it when it’s rushing in his ears and his heart is caught in his throat and I know it is. I know it is. And I know he won’t accept the apology anyway and I don’t want him to stay. I don’t want him to stay because he isn’t fucked for life. He isn’t fucked for life and I can’t tell him that. I can’t tell him that because then he’ll leave me. He’ll leave me. He’ll leave me and I can’t let him leave me. But, “stay,” it’s jammed against his tongue from mine and I can’t ask him to stay. I can’t ask him to stay, to stay and take care of me to stay and take care of me because I’m fucked for life and he’s fucked for life and all we’ll ever be is fucked for life together. But together is better than… but together is better than…

His lips are leaving mine and my heart stops in my throat and I can’t say it again. I can’t say it again now that it comes out so clearly, too clearly, “stay,” so I bury it in his throat and I feel his pulse point against my mouth and I wonder if I stayed here long enough if we could open our eyes and be those boys again. Those boys in the dugout on a hot as balls summer night and we could be fucked for life together and know it then and know it now and know that the important part is that we’re together and I don’t care if he’s my caretaker and I don’t care if he’s my piece of trash, and I don’t care if he’s a father or a husband or a child of an abusive psychotic prick; and I don’t care if he’s a faggot or a queer or a ‘maybe, I don’t know’ or a thug or a pimp, or a man with dried blood on his face in a dugout with the air crisp with chill and the grass cold and damp with dew and his jacket in a heap on the concrete and my jacket in a heap on the concrete and my hand on his chest right over his heart and, “shit,” the only part that matters is he’s mine. He’s mine and he knows that, he knows that and he knows me better than I know me and he chose that and he chose me and he chose my… my… my, “shit,” I can’t let him turn around. 

I shove his jeans down and he’s going to have to step out of them and he doesn’t want to step out of them, he doesn’t want to be that exposed. It’s one thing to only have the jeans around his thighs when someone sees us, or when it’s cold out, or when one of us is trying to pretend we don’t matter. We don’t matter. And it’s enough. It’s enough that he steps out of them. 

He steps out of them and when I yank on his thighs he lets me tug his feet off the ground and back him into the concrete block of the dugout and he lets me. And it’s enough. And he’s always been enough and he knows that. He’s always been enough with his lips on mine and his breath mingled with mine and his taste invading mine and his hands holding mine and maybe it’s to help keep himself up or maybe it’s to hold my fucking hands but it’s not something either of us will discuss. And maybe when his hands leave mine and he reaches up for that bar to hang onto, maybe it’s so my hand doesn’t hurt in his death grip and he can squeeze the fuck out of that metal bar until his fingers are numb and he can do that and he won’t have to worry about hurting me but he can pretend it’s to hold himself up.

And that’s okay, and that’s enough, and that’s more than enough and he knows that. He’s more than enough when he’s here and I’m here and I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here before the lithium wears off and the beer wears off and the feel of his mouth on mine wears off and he knows that. He knows that. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here. 

But I’m here now. I’m here now and he’s warm and he’s beautiful and his legs are wrapped around my hips and his fingers are wrapped around the bar and his mouth is against mine and his tongue keeps sliding past my lips and I’m the most incredible thing he’s ever tasted and ever felt and I’m the only tender thing that’s ever happened to him and I’m not sure I like that. Because I’m sure he deserves more than me. He deserves more than me and my… my… my, “shit,” and I don’t want it. I don’t want it to be over and he doesn’t want it to be over because we both know, both know. We both know. We both know that we don’t know shit. We don’t know, “shit,” because we can’t know shit. We can’t fucking know shit because we were beat since we were born and we can’t do shit about it and we never could do shit about it and all this, “shit,” just keeps piling up and I can’t keep shoveling my, “shit,” up around him until it’s invading his mouth and his nostrils and he can’t breathe and I can’t spend the rest of my life saying, “sorry,” and he can’t spend the rest of his life begging me to, “stay,” but I’ll beg him to, “stay,” as I push him away because he can’t, “stay,” because he doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve any of this.

Any of this. Any of me. This is me. This is me. I’m not that boy in the dugout anymore. I’m not that boy with dreams bigger than this, I’m not that boy with hope in his eyes, and a smile on his face. I’m not him. I’m me. And that boy is dead. And I’m digging that grave. I built a house on the sand. I’ve been living on the sand and it’s falling apart beneath me and I’ve had enough and it’s not over, and it’s never over and I’ll never be enough. And I’ve had my fill but I’ll never be full and he’ll never be full and we’ll never be full. And I’m fucking angry but I can’t feel it over the lithium and I can’t feel it over the numbness and I can’t feel it over the burning ache in my chest and I can’t taste it over the words that are stuck to the roof of my mouth. But this, this is the promised land. He is the promised land and the promise was worth it and I can’t take him to live on the sand and watch it as it crumbles under his feet and under my feet and under our feet. I can’t do that to him. And I can’t… I can’t… I can’t breathe.

I bury my head in his neck and he’s shaking and I’m shaking and I want to scream, I want to scream day after day after day until it’s clear, I want to scream. I want to scream until the reverberations cause an avalanche of sand and I want to be forgiven, forgive me for the things I’ve done and the things I’ll do and the things I’ll always do. And when the sand is crumbling under my weight and piling up at your hips, I’ll scream it again and again. And again. 

Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me. Will it ever sound clearly? Or will it always be a jumbled mess on my tongue and the roof of my mouth and on his tongue and the roof of his mouth and I can feel him breathing now. Against my hair and I want to climb the bridge and I want to jump off and I want to fill the bottle and dump it down my throat and I want to, I want to, I want to be me before… before… before I was wasted on waiting on my next mistake. And he was wasted on waiting on me to make my next mistake.

I’ve had my fill. It should be enough. It should be enough by now. It should all be enough by now. But it’s not. It’s not enough. It’s never enough and he knows that. He knows that. 

His hands release the bar above him and my knees give way beneath us and we land in a heap with our jackets on the concrete and we don’t laugh, we barely notice. We barely notice because his lips are on mine again. And his hands are on me again. And his hands are tugging my shirt over my head and when the kiss breaks and I see his face, it’s his face. And it’s thoughtful and lustful and careful. Careful. I put the careful in that gaze. I put the careful in those eyes. The careful didn’t exist, it didn’t exist back then. Back when he was stealing and fighting and conning and hustling and surviving and getting shot and getting locked up and getting back at the little league manager and he was fucked for life, but he was never careful. He was never careful. Back then. He was never careful.

Ready to go again, or you, uh, need some time firecrotch? 

He was never careful.

I did that. I put the careful in his stride and in his eyes. And in his touch and his touch is still everything and it’s enough. And it’ll always be enough.

And when my hands slide up his back, under his shirt, it’s enough. And it’ll always be enough.

And when he smiles at me. When he smiles at me. I did that. I put that smile on his face. I did that. And it’s enough. And it’ll always be enough. And I hope he knows that. And I hope I know that. Always.

—————

When my feet land on the grass outside the ball field, when they land in the damp dew-kissed grass and my hand releases the cold metal of the fence, when my eyes scan the field he is there. He is there in the lights of the field. He is young. And full of dreams. And his eyes are sparkled. And his smile is confident. And he knows who he is. And he knows what he wants. 

On the ground at his feet is a crevice. A crevice in the grass. A crevice growing into a crack, growing into a cavern of darkness at his feet. A Halloween hand rising from the darkness, from the depth of the Earth, from the shadows of his mind; and taking hold. Taking hold of his ankle. Slowly spreading and climbing up his leg like a blackened rotten vine until his entire body is in it’s grasp.

I blink. I shudder and I hear Mickey’s voice, I hear his voice settling around me like a blanket, “ready to go home tough guy?”

This is me. This is me living on the sand. Living on the sand. And under every step it crumbles. It crumbles and cascades and slides and sinks and falls away. This is me. This is me. 

And him? He doesn’t have to, he doesn’t have to live on the sand with me. He doesn’t have to. But when he turns to look over his shoulder, one brow cocked, a swirl of smoke exiting his pink lips, cheeks flushed, painted with dried blood, and a sparkle in his eye; when he turns to look at me, to make sure I’m coming, to make sure I’m here, to make sure we’re here; it’s clear as fucking day that he’s choosing me. He’s choosing this house I have built on the sand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Forgive me, forgive me  
> Don't it sound more clear when I'm  
> Screaming day after day?  
> I've lost all my patience  
> I'm wasted on waiting on  
> Making my next mistake."  
> ~ Colter Wall 
> 
> Ian's not delusional, we know that, right? But I'm pretty sure anyone who argues with mood disorders has that moment or maybe multiple moments in their life when they're confronted by the image of their teenage self and they have to admit to that image that they are not what that hopeful teenager wanted, but they're okay nonetheless. 
> 
> Hmm... I think I missed my exit and overshot the circus. It's fall, what can I do? Fucking hold on tight and spew a bunch of shit all over my pages and withstand the melancholy by forcing someone fictional to come along with me. 
> 
> Thanks friends. I appreciate you :)


	4. Unanswered Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I stole these from RTNTY, but figured they might as well be here too. So if you read them there, then thank you, if you didn't, then here you go. This whole collection feels like something I need to fully exist in my head canon before we get into full swing with season ten.
> 
> First bit is from Ian's POV the night Mickey came out. Ep 4x11 fill-in.
> 
> Second bit is Mickey's POV from the day after he came out, set between 4x11 and 4x12.
> 
> Third bit is a fill-in that would exist somewhere shortly after the end of season 4, during Ian's depressive state. Mickey's POV.
> 
> Fourth is Ian's POV from the same scene.

Unanswered Whispers

The walk home is silent. The glow of the streetlights harshly yellow on the snow mounded up along the curbs. The air coming out of their mouths in painfully silent clouds of words frozen inside their lips. Mickey’s metallic with the taste of blood from a broken tooth and a fat lip. Ian’s thick and dry with guilt starting to creep in. Too dry to say anything. Too painful to say anything. Hands shoved in their pockets. The buzz of alcohol receding into the buzz of post-fight aches. He wasn’t certain under the glow of the streetlight outside the Alibi if Mickey’s eyes were fogged with concussion or if it was just everything else.

He grunts out some pain when he stoops to remove his boots inside the entryway, seeing Mickey nearly fall over when he does the same. Unsteady on his own two feet as he tugs his jacket off, then remembers he was going to have another smoke. Sliding it back on but forgetting his shoes as he steps out to the porch.

Without an invitation, and without the warmth of his presence Ian is starting to feel the full weight of what he’s just done. ‘Ian, what you and I have makes me free. Not what these assholes know’. How the fuck did he not hear that? It was clear as fucking day. And now that he’s standing here in the familiarity of the Gallagher house, it’s starting to come back to him in flashes. That fucking morning, the morning that changed everything for Mickey. That morning that Ian had long ago shrugged off as just another day in the Milkovich house of horrors. A house that Mickey still has to walk into, still has to sit on that couch, still has to look in the face of his father, in the face of his now wife, and the tiny little face of that baby. Just another day in the Milkovich house of horrors where beating your children, and raping your children is the norm.

He hears a choked cry part his lips and he closes his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he finishes removing his jacket. Nothing he can do about it now. Nothing but help clean up the mess. Terry is behind bars. But now what? Now his shithead buddies know his son is gay. And now the shitheads that Mickey’s worked with on his drug runs know he’s gay. And what now? Should he be looking over his shoulder, should he be looking over Mickey’s shoulder all the time? How will the others react, his drinking buddies, his wife? All the other neighborhood thugs and shitheads, will they be glad to hand down a beating to a fag?

Fuck. He turns to look out the window where Mickey is slumped on the top porch step. Shivering and bleeding. Fuck, he did that. He did that to the man he loves. And he doesn’t look very fucking free, does he? No. He looks defeated. There is no set of victory in his shoulders. There is no feeling of overcoming a hurdle in the air. There is no feeling of self-assurance and confidence rolling off his stance. He just looks fucking wounded. Completely exhausted and deflated. Like the way that stupid ‘Welcome Home Terry’ banner looked hanging above the church doors. On it’s last legs, unable to withstand even a slight breeze.

He bites back a cry when he sees Mickey move. Pained and sore, as he drags himself to his feet. As he leans against the railing for a moment, staring out onto the street in the cold. His fingers rise, meeting his eyelids and grinding for a long time. The frosted exhale comes out in three gusts, little gusts of hurt and confusion.

Jesus fucking Christ Ian, just go out there and put your arms around him. Tell him you love him. Tell him he’s so fucking strong it’s breathtaking. Tell him you appreciate him. And you’ll stand beside him through all of this. You’ll be the support he’s never had. You won’t push him to do the shit he doesn’t want to do anymore because you love him exactly as he is. And you always fucking have.

He’s still standing there when the door opens. And Mickey doesn’t look at him. As he slowly removes his jacket.

Yeah, they fought him. They fought him side by side and it felt great to bloody him. It would have felt great to stifle the life out of him. But the thing is, it doesn’t reverse any of it. It doesn’t take them back to that day on the couch and stop it from happening. It doesn’t take away the years of hurt that Mickey’s endured because of that man. It doesn’t take away the years of hurt still to come for him. Guy might be behind bars but that doesn’t mean his presence won’t be felt. He’ll always be that growl in Mickey’s ear, ‘I’ll fucking kill you’.

He doesn’t look at him as he walks past him, trudging slowly up the stairs. He doesn’t stop until he’s seated on the edge of the bed. Pulling his jeans off slowly. Ian should get down on his knees and do that for him. Suck his dick while he’s down there. He should walk over and kiss him, even just the top of his head again.

“Let’s get cleaned up,” he whispers lamely.

And Mickey nods. Sort of.

“I’ll start the shower,” stepping out of his jeans and leaving them on the bedroom floor on his way out.

The steam stings every bruise and cut. And a deep ache in his bones is starting to rise. He’s so fucking tired. He stays in the hot water and waits. But Mickey doesn’t show up. He doesn’t step in. Maybe he wants to clean up alone.

Something is rising in his chest as he towel dries. And it isn’t just the pain of tonight’s fight. It’s a deep ache, knowing he pushed too far. This time, he pushed too far.

But there’s no taking it back now.

The hallway light spilling into the bedroom where Carl and Liam are sound asleep, where they didn’t even move when Ian and Mickey came in. And Mickey. Mickey is on the floor. Next to the bed. Where he was sleeping when Ian told him he could stay here. At first. Like he wasn’t allowed in the bed with him. Why wasn’t he allowed in the bed with him? Why was Mickey being punished for bringing him home, for pulling him off the ledge he was trying to throw himself off? Why did Mickey have to suck his dick to get him to stay? Why was it Mickey’s fault his bitch whore of a wife threatened Ian? She wasn’t Mickey’s choice. Not then. Not now. Not ever. She was a choice made for him.

Fuck. A cloud of pain rises in the back of his throat.

Stepping into a clean pair of boxers, hanging his wet towel on the back of the door. He steps to the foot of his bed, looking down at Mickey who is sound asleep. Curled up on his side facing the door, just like always. His beautiful face once again smeared in blood.

Fuck, it hitches in his throat and stabs through his chest. Pulling the blankets off the bed, knowing sleeping on the floor will only make his ribs hurt more in the morning. But he doesn’t fucking care. Not right now. The only thing he cares about is wrapping that man in his arms. Holding him as close as he possibly can. Because he’s too much of a pussy to say the things that need to be said. So he’ll hold him instead. And hope that his thoughts and regrets can find their way to Mickey’s ears silently. Hope that his appreciation for his gesture of love can be transferred through his embrace.

He doesn’t even grumble his dissatisfaction of being squeezed so tightly like he normally does. He doesn’t make any noise at all. He doesn’t shift or squirm his way further away. He’s deadweight in Ian’s arms. But Ian can feel him breathing, he can feel his heart beating slowly against his chest. He takes a deep breath of him, through the blood and beer and food that was all over the floor of the bar, he still smells it. He still smells like Mickey, his Mickey.

————

The sun has started filtering through the lone crack in the curtain of the Milkovich house. It’s a narrow line of bright afternoon light cutting the bed in half. Cutting right through Ian’s sleeping form. The blankets pulled up to his shoulders, nothing but his face visible.

Mickey sits on the edge of the bed, reaching out to trace his fingers through his hair. His eyes flicker open, lazily blinking at him, slowly coming into focus.

“Hey,” a half smile, “I slept in again, huh?”

“Yeah,” sighing, “you feeling alright?”

“Just tired,” but his voice sounds weird, strained. And his eyes close again.

“Well I ain’t gonna let you sleep all fuckin’ day. Ribs okay?”

“Yeah,” eyes opening again, this time a tiny spark of a star twinkling on his iris. Where did all the stars go? When did they start falling away from that galaxy? How did Mickey not notice them fizzling out and fading away?

“K,” grabbing the blankets, tossing them off the foot of the bed and heading south. They haven’t fucked since he came out. It’s been weird, silence the main thing that keeps happening when they’re alone. When he woke up on the floor at the Gallagher house the other morning, he didn’t even think about it, just got up and left. Not out of anger or resentment or whatever the fuck else has been churning up in his guts every thirty fucking seconds for the last three days every time he looks at that ginger fucknut. The only thing he was thinking was the fact that Terry was put away again. And that meant he was free to come back to the house. And chew Svetlana a new one for kicking Ian out in the first place. Dumb bitch, like she has any right whatsoever to decide who stays and who goes.

Then he got to work cleaning her shit out of his bedroom. If it wasn’t for that fuckin’ baby he’d have thrown it all out on the curb. Fuckin’ baby with his big fuckin’ eyes always staring at Mickey like ‘yeah asshole, you’re it’. Fuckin’ baby.

Burn the couch. As he’s standing in the doorway of his bedroom scanning over all of the whore’s shit stacked up in the living room, strewn over that fucking couch. Burn the couch.

And that’s exactly what he does. Fuckin’ couch. It’s not hard to find another piece of shit couch to replace that piece of shit couch. And if not, who the fuck cares? No one ever sits on it anyway. And if they did, well then too fucking bad for them. Fuck ‘em.

He’s sweaty, out of breath, and shaking. Pushed, pulled, and dragged that couch all by himself under the L. The pounding in his head not subsiding as he dumps lighter fluid on the cushions, along with that fucking afghan. Dropping a match and stepping back. Fucking orange and brown, and fuck his chest hurts. It fucking hurts. His mom knit or crocheted or whatever the fuck that fuckin’ afghan. But it’s burning now. And it doesn’t fucking matter anyway. She’s fucking dead.

Fuck, why does his chest hurt so fucking bad? Fucking stupid fucking afghan under his fingers, in his grasp as Ian pushed into him and he felt his whole fucking world coming together. Filling a void in his chest the night before, sitting on that stupid fucking couch sharing a smoke and beers.

“Fuck!” he shouts it. When the stupid L starts clanging down the tracks, “Fuck!” again, tilting his head back and shouting at the top of his lungs as the couch lights up in oranges, blues, yellows, whites, reds. Black smoke swirling to the raised tracks above him, “Fuck!” until his whole body is shaking and his throat his raw, until his breath is gone and his stomach is numb. And it doesn’t help. He still wants to slam his fists into the concrete until they’re bloody and raw. Until the pain is vibrating all the way to his shoulders. Until his skin is no longer recognizable and he can’t feel a fucking thing past the pain in his hands. But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t because as he’s standing here burning the fucking couch, even a part of his mother that he fucking misses but he’ll never admit that he misses her; he doesn’t because as that black smoke is circling in the air and he’s hearing a goddamned crow making a fucking racket somewhere down in the alley, there’s a set of arms wrapping themselves around his chest. A set of long, pale, freckled arms. The idiot forgot his jacket and his skin is cold to the touch against Mickey’s chin. But his breath is warm on the back of Mickey’s neck. And his cold stupid fingers are wiping tears off Mickey’s cheeks that he didn’t even know were there. And his stupid voice is whispering in Mickey’s ear, some fucking shit about not being able to find him when he woke up, about checking the stupid Alibi. Like Mickey can ever drink there again. Fuck that shit anyway. Like he can just walk in there and all those fucking idiots there will treat him the same now that they know. Like he won’t take the brunt of every single stupid fucking joke for the rest of the year. Jokes that aren’t even funny anyway. Fuck them. But fuck, it’s not like Mickey can afford to just drink anywhere. Fuck.

And fuck Ian. Fuck him. But his stupid fucking arms feel so right. And his stupid fucking whisper is making Mickey’s stomach rise with butterflies. And the idiot is probably freezing cold standing here with no jacket. Idiot.

They go inside. But they don’t talk. He doesn’t tell him why he burned the fucking couch. Not like he has to. He doesn’t tell him why he moved Svetlana’s shit out of his room. He doesn’t have to say that shit either. But fuck, the shit he should say won’t come out either.

So it’s silence. And weird looks. And so much fucking tension. And Ian’s been sleeping in, three mornings in a row now. And he looks weird. Like there’s something sitting on his chest and he can’t get out from under it. And Jesus, fuck, Mickey feels that too. But he doesn’t know what to say. He should at least say he’s not mad, he’s not mad at Ian. He’s just mad. He’s just always fucking angry. He’s always been fucking angry and he doesn’t know what to do with all of it anymore. His entire fucking life has been this. This endless cycle of violence and abuse. Of alcohol and fights. His entire life he’s been a whipped dog that keeps coming back to his abusive owner because he has nowhere else to fucking go. Even though he knows he’s just going to get whipped again and again, but he has nowhere else to fucking go. He’s spent his whole life being used and treated like shit, so much that he doesn’t even know what it’s like to care about himself. About anything. Anything but that fucking dopey ginger smile that he hasn’t seen much lately.

And he should tell him, tell him about that stupid fucking afghan. And about his mom. And about how she was the only person in his life that never hit, or used, or screamed at him like he was a piece of trash. And how he watched her die. Right there. Right fucking there, the spot that he walks across every single day to grab a beer out of the fridge. And he should tell him that. But how does he say any of that shit? How could he say any of that shit and watch those stars in his eyes dim and fall away as he’s talking, watch pity and hurt and anger rise on his face? How could he say any of that to a guy who still has dreams in his head and stars in his eyes? How?

And he should at least say it’s still true, it’s still true that what they have is what makes him free. And that it doesn’t fucking matter what everyone else knows. But fuck, it’s too fucking hard. And it was so easy before, when it was just fucking at the ball field, and the store, and the bleachers, and wherever the fuck they could find a place to just get what they wanted and move along. But then what they wanted had to go and fucking change. And Terry had to go and walk in on them. And that stupid fucking whore had to go and end up pregnant.

Fuck. Why fucking talk about any of that shit?

So he’s sucking his dick and it’s not getting hard. It’s not getting hard because he doesn’t give a shit about Mickey anymore. He was never attracted to this garbage life. He wanted something real, something with a future and money in his pockets. Something with stability and room service. He wanted someone who would shout stupid shit at him while he was fucking him. He wanted guys to shove money in his shorts and tell him he should be a model.

Not a piece of fucking trash in a dump of a fucking house with a Russian whore of a wife and a fuckin’ baby who…

Who he can’t even fucking look at.

“Fuck,” he pulls away from his cock, heels of his hands meeting his lids and grinding.

“I don’t know what that’s about,” sheepishly pulling his boxers up, “think I gotta piss though,” he’s slow getting up. And he’s slow moving to the bathroom. And he looks like he’s still in pain. But he said his ribs were fine.

Mickey doesn’t move. Sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands over his eyes, forcing back the constant fucking burning. The constant fucking ache to just shout it all out. To just put his fist through the fucking drywall, and the window, and the front fucking door.

He sits down next to him. Close enough that his leg is flush with Mickey’s. Hand on his thigh, a half-assed squeeze as he sighs. His touch might as well be a hot poker, jolting Mickey to his feet, but his stupid fucking hands clamp down on his hips, spin him around and yank his boxers to his knees. His big ol’ mo of a dick responds immediately when Ian’s mouth finds it and his hands find his balls and a damn skinny finger finds his asshole. He might not want Mickey anymore but his dick down his throat is enough to wake his own back up. And then they’re fucking and still not saying any of the shit they should be saying.

But they’re not just fucking. That idiot is pulling him into his lap and kissing his chest and kissing his neck and kissing his mouth. And he’s guiding his dick in but not letting go of his mouth, and he’s not thrusting like a horny fucking teenager who can’t get to orgasm quick enough. He’s barely moving, and neither is Mickey. They’re just sitting here rocking. And the only time the kisses stop is to catch their breath, and when they do his eyes open and all the stars and the moon are right there. They’re right there and Mickey feels like he could reach out and touch them.

And by the time they go to sleep that night they’ve decided that the Sox stand a chance this year. And the 'Hawks are shit this year. And the Bears are whatever, no one cares about the Bears ‘cause football sucks. And maybe they’ll sneak into a couple Sox games this summer.

But they haven’t decided how exactly they want to break down this barrier between them. And they haven’t said any of the shit they should have said. But when he starts to fall asleep with Ian pressed up against his back, and he takes a deep breath against Mickey’s neck he just thinks maybe things aren't so fucking bad.

And when he goes to the Alibi the next day he decides, yeah, things can be okay.

And when he gets home and Ian’s still in bed, and when he looks at his eyes and he doesn’t see a single fucking star, not even a dim dying one; he knows it is that fucking bad. And things can’t be okay, because things can never be okay. Not in his life.

————

He pushes the bedroom door open with his foot. Not really trying to be quiet anymore, but trying not to be too insanely loud either since he flinches every time Mickey even speaks at a normal volume. Looking at his long skinny form under the sheets makes Mickey’s chest feel tight and his mouth taste sour. It’s been two weeks. And it still hurts. He keeps expecting him to just get up one day, wake up and be annoyingly happy.

It stinks in here. It has for a week. It smells like person. Tang of sweat even though he’s shivering more often than not and burrowing himself under the covers. That odor that emits off a person who’s been sleeping for too long, enveloping the room even when the door is open. Leaving the door open because whatever Fiona said about suicide makes Mickey think he’ll get up one day to go for the knives. He locked up all the guns and drugs. But Svetlana nearly stabbed him when he tried to hide all the kitchen knives. And her razor. Not that she uses it nearly as often as she should.

“Guess it’s time for baths all around,” setting the gross shit-stained baby on the gross dirty bed. Getting a sour whiff of himself when he pulls the messed t-shirt off over his head. Fuck, he’s not sure when he last showered either. That’ll have to wait.

“Don’t fuckin’ roll over fatty,” he tells the kid who is gurgling something towards the ceiling as his arms fling out in time with his fat fucking legs. 

“Fuck,” a shudder rolls down his spine and he steps out of the room. Fuck, this fucking tub is gross. But it’s cleaner than that gross fucking baby. And it’s cleaner than Ian. How the fuck do you bathe a fucking wiggly little lump of fat that can’t even hold it’s own head up? Fuck. Maybe he should call Debbie. Fuck, she’s probably in school.

“Well it can’t be that fuckin’ hard,” turning on the faucet and heading back to the bedroom, “alright tough guy,” as he enters, “time for a…” cut off in his throat when he sees that he’s moved. They both have. His heart leaps up into his windpipe, watching Ian’s hand gently stroking the baby’s fat belly. Up and down while the baby with the stupid name gurgles happily, his fat head rolled to the side to watch Ian’s face. Jesus Christ that baby looks tiny under Ian’s big hand. He’s not sure which one of them looks more fragile though, “bath,” finally falls out his mouth when Ian’s dull, deadened eyes rise. Fuck they’re dark, they’re so dark they don’t even look green anymore. They look absent of all color. It’s the first time he’s looked at them in a few days and it sends a fuckin’ shot of raw pain right through his core.

“Okay,” he starts over to the bed, trying to calm the shit that’s rising in his chest and throat. Fuck that shit, Mickey doesn’t feel this. Not right now. He’s bathing a fucking shit-stained baby and then putting it in that stupid collapsible thing that he’s supposed to sleep in that has that stupid dangling thing with stuffed jungle animals on it, the one Debbie brought over. She said Liam didn’t need it anymore. And Mickey wanted to yell at her for thinking he needed her stupid fuckin’ charity but he couldn’t talk over the lump in his throat because he did need her stupid fuckin’ charity and he needed her to help him get Ian out of bed. And the baby needed somewhere to be that was safe while they were busy with Ian. But Milkoviches don’t fucking need charity and they certainly don’t need fucking help.

He doesn’t need help this time. Lifting the baby out from under Ian’s cold, clammy hand. Just barely brushing his fingertips but it strikes lightning through his body forcing his eyes to meet Ian’s again. He’s looking at him, studying him like he’s not even sure of who Mickey is for a moment, or how he ended up here. Then he blinks and Mickey backs away with a nod. Without a fucking word. What the fuck is he supposed to say anyway?

“Alright you little nugget, let’s do this,” kneeling on the floor beside the tub. Peeling the kid’s gross clothing off, “what’s the point of a diaper if it doesn’t hold the shit in?”

He makes a noise that sounds kind of like a laugh. Mickey’s eyes burn, blinking it back. Fuck, he still hates him.

Wiping as much shit off as he can with a washcloth. The baby squirms and lets out a cry when he wipes over a spot of rash on his asscheek. 

“Fuck,” his chest is tightening again, sliding one hand under his head and the other under his butt and lowering him into the water. His face squishes up and he starts squalling as soon as he contacts the water, “too hot?”

Taking him back out, letting some cold water run. Trying again. Same thing, “too cold? What?”

Hot water for about ten seconds. Same thing. This time he doesn’t stop with the crying even when he’s out of the water, “fuck,” now it’s happening. It’s rising in Mickey’s body. And he knows how his dad always felt. Like he was either going to smash the face of his child or start crying himself. Frustration hazing his vision, tears clouding his eyes, breath shaking while the stupid fucker just keeps screaming. It’s getting louder and higher pitched and Mickey knows he should be taking him against his chest. He should be kissing his head and cooing at him. He should be doing something. Something more than just sitting here thinking about how much he hates him and how much he wants him to just shut the fuck up and how easy it would be to just drop him in the water and walk away. And he can’t look at his red face, it’s like his elbows are locked, extended with an offering in his hands. But no one will take the fucking offering. And it don't matter if he's his brother or his son or a goddamn stranger, his only option right now is Mickey and Mickey's about to lose it.

A clammy fucking hand clamps down on his shoulder that’s still bare. Using it for support as his big fucking feet step over the side of the tub. His hand is shaky, weak with days of being under-hydrated and under-fed, and when the fuck does muscle atrophy set in? He’s lowering his whole body into the tub and his hands are steady enough to lift the baby out of Mickey’s. Bringing him to his chest as he leans back against the edge of the tub. Eyes closed while he leans into the top of that bald head and the baby goes quiet. His chubby butt doesn’t look so chubby cupped in Ian’s big hand.

Now all the tightening and clouding in Mickey’s chest is rising in the form of tears and he gets up. Quickly making his way out of the room that is suffocating the life out of him for so many fucking reasons he can’t begin to process a single one. He stands with his back leaned against the doorframe, silently letting the pain roll off his face in streaks of salty water. Listening for splashes, he should be listening for splashes of water that might indicate Ian dropping the baby. Or might indicate him stepping out of the tub to get a razor blade for slitting his wrists.

His fingers meet his eyelids. Grinding until he can force the tears back, until he sees nothing but spots, not the image of Ian lying cold and dead in a tub full of pink water with a fucking baby on his chest.

Fuck. Turning his head to make sure none of that has happened. Glancing quickly, lingering will be too much, just long enough to know they’re both fine. And they are.

Wiping his cheeks until they’re dry as he hurries through changing the sheets, “fuck,” pounding on the window frame to get it unstuck, pushing it open as far as it’ll go. Face against the screen. A fucking breath of crisp wet spring air. Chilly and muddy. But it’ll be summer soon, and there’s no way someone can be depressed in the summer, right? It’ll be summer and he’ll be annoyingly happy again and he’ll be bouncing off the fucking walls, going for morning runs and staying up all hours of the night to talk about his ideas, his plans. His whatever the fuck he was always going on and on about that never made any fucking sense and the scribbles in his notebook weren’t even sentences, they were just a list of words that made no fucking sense when strung together anyway. And some fucking drawings that Mickey could never decipher, maybe hieroglyphics or cave drawings or something. What the fuck? It didn’t fucking matter, his eyes were lit with life. Every single star was shining brightly, brilliantly on that green iris and even when it made no fucking sense it sill made Mickey feel like it was possible. Like it was endless.

His chest is starting to loosen. Enough to grab a t-shirt, knowing the hot water is probably gone anyway. He’ll have to wait for a shower. He’ll wait for a shower but he can’t wait any longer to check on them in the tub. He has to check on them. He has to go make sure they’re both still above water. He has to. Fuck, he just… fucking can’t.

His feet are moving anyway. Even if his head doesn’t want to. Even if the sight is just too fucking much and he’s not sure he can ignore all the shit that’s rising in his body every time he looks at all the fucking pain that is coursing through Ian’s veins. All that raw thumping pain that he can practically feel in the air around him. That he can feel in his own veins every time he brushes up against his flesh, every time he runs his hand through his hair, every time he presses his lips against his forehead so lightly.

And that baby. His fat head tucked under Ian’s chin. And Ian’s hand, his big hand with long skinny fingers that Mickey loves, it’s cupping water so slowly out of the tub and letting it trickle down the baby’s back. And the baby’s fat fuckin’ cheek is smashed against Ian’s chest. Ian’s chest where Mickey sometimes buries his face in those rare moments that they’re fucking face-to-face and the intimacy to just too fucking much so he has to hide to get away from Ian’s gaze burning holes into his soul, forcing him to crack around the edges and let that fucking idiot inside his broken places that he’d never fucking admit he even has so how the fuck is he supposed to let Ian into them anyway?

Fucking lump of flesh, blood, bone, and gurgles seems pretty fucking content right there. And that gurgle sounds a lot like happiness. And Mickey hates him for that. And he hates himself for that. And he really fucking hates Ian for that. But maybe it’s just not so bad. Maybe it’s not the worst thing on the planet for Ian to be able to comfort a kid that Mickey can’t stand to look at. Maybe it’s not the most awful thing for him to be so willing to love a baby that came into their lives only because of one of the worst experiences in Mickey’s life. 

Now he’s kneeling beside the tub. And Ian’s eyes are opening. Head turning towards Mickey. There aren’t any stars. But the green is there. It’s like the green of a maple leaf at the end of summer, before the chlorophyll falls off, maybe when it’s starting to die. But it’s there.

No, maybe this isn’t so fucking bad.

————

The baby’s back is warm under his hand. The gentleness of his breathing and his rhythmic jerky movements on the bed are calming. When he woke earlier to the feel of his little fists crashing against his back every so often, he felt like he was struggling to the surface of the pool after spending way too long underwater. Thinking the baby was going to roll off the bed, he had turned around, feeling it in every single tired and underused muscle in his body.

And then Mickey had looked at him in shock for a moment before he wiped it off his face, getting to work on bathing Yevgeny. He laid here and watched the ceiling, blinking away the fog of the last couple days. Or weeks? Maybe a lifetime. But the thoughts were becoming clear. The circling in his head of ‘you’re worthless, you’re a burden, you’re a waste’, had faded. The voice had started turning into little bits of Mickey in there. Mickey’s ‘you’re okay, I’m just going to change the sheets’, and ‘you’re alright Ian, it’s just us’, and ‘I’m right here and I love you’ so quietly against his spine.

The baby’s cry was like a final tug to the surface. He sounded so distraught. Ian felt like he was walking through sludge up to his waist to get to him. To get to Mickey. But Mickey needed him. Yevgeny needed him. Mickey wasn’t ready to be alone with that baby. He could barely stand the sight of him. There was no way he was ready to coddle him when he was that upset. There was no way he was ready to give the baby the comfort and security that infants need. He’d poured all he was worth into Ian for the last few days or weeks or however long Ian had been lost in the gloom enveloping his mind and body. Of course he didn’t have the emotional capacity to hold that crying baby against his chest.

“The fuck’s the point of a diaper if it doesn’t hold the shit in?” Mickey wonders as he’s walking back into the bedroom. A clean diaper in one hand, a onesie in the other. If it wasn’t such a horrible way to have a child together, it’d be the most beautiful thing Ian has ever seen.

“Probably growing out of that size,” sliding his hand over the tubby butt-cheeks, “right, big guy?” his voice sounds weird and strained, his head is still blurry but he’s trying his damndest to stay afloat, “too big for your britches.”

“Why the fuck we got the wrong size diapers then?”

“Svetlana probably wants to use them up anyway. Growing too fast for the big pack,” sliding a finger into his little fist, letting him drag it to his mouth for a good chew, “no teeth yet, huh? Working on it,” it’s turned into a whisper and his eyes are getting heavy already. Those big blue eyes watching him intently as he gnaws on his pointer finger with hearty determination before it turns into sucking, “he’s hungry.”

“How the fuck you know that?”

“Wait for it,” he pulls his finger back and Yevgeny jerks his head to the side, mouth open like a baby bird, frustration rising into his pink cheeks and a howl. Giving his finger back.

“Fuckin’ eh, of course he’s hungry he just puked and shit out his last meal. Jesus fuck kid,” he drops the diaper on the end of the bed, “let’s cover your fat ass before it explodes on my clean sheets. Then I’ll get you some titty milk.”

“Warm it up on the stovetop in a pan of water.”

“Why the fuck can’t I just put it in the microwave?” rolling the ball of squalling baby over to strap the diaper on. He’s lacking caring in his movements, not being rough or anything, just not engaging in anyway and the baby can certainly feel it. Letting out another howl, Mickey flinches, rushing through the diapering process, tossing the onesie on the bed without making eye contact with that tiny ocean of blue that’s lined with tears.

“It’ll warm it unevenly,” he finally answers weakly before Mickey can disappear through the open door. For the brief moments that Monica actually stayed around when the kids were babies, she breastfed them her spoiled drug-laced breast. The longest she ever stayed was after Carl was born. She lasted six months that time. Probably explains Carl’s level of functioning as a human being, having spent that much time getting second-hand highs off her milk.

A stinging rises to his eyes. Remembering the time she didn’t get out of bed for three weeks. Frank would drag her to the tub and drop her in every couple days and she’d sit in the warm water and sob. She’d sob so loudly.

“I’m Monica,” he whispers as his chest tightens, cutting off his breath and tears spill over. He won’t allow them to make a noise. He won’t allow anyone else to feel his pain, or hear it. Leaving one hand in reach for the beautiful baby who is lying on his back, head turned towards Ian with his clear sea blue eyes watching him intently. He slides a finger over his sweet pink lips, “I’m sorry Yev. I’m sorry I’ll be a burden on you for the rest of your life. But I hope you know I love you,” the baby gurgles, his lips pursing together before suckling to the tip of Ian’s finger again, “I know it doesn’t mean much for someone like me to love you. But I do,” wiping his cheeks with his free hand when he hears Mickey’s footsteps approaching.

Passing the bottle back and forth quickly between his hands like a hot potato, “got it,” announcing proudly, “it’s warm.”

He reaches for it before Mickey can even try to give it to the baby. He’s trying. That’s enough. If he burns the baby, he’ll probably never try again. The drip that contacts his wrist too hot, but he keeps his expression blank. Reaching over to set it on the windowsill where the window is partly open and cold spring air is swirling in.

“What?” eyebrows arched towards the bottle.

“Nothing. It’s just too warm right now. He’s okay Mick. It just needs to cool a little bit. He can keep my finger for a minute, can’t you?” focus staying on the baby again. His legs are extended skyward, gaze on Ian as they drop forcefully down to the mattress with what sounds like a giggle, “yeah, you can wait.”

Both hands are wrapping themselves around Ian’s finger, hungrily sucking at it, but he’s content. And that’s okay. Mickey sighs, his hands grasping the onesie, staring at it for a long moment, his mind working in high gear figuring out a way to dress a floppy blob of baby without hurting it. Ian’s not going to coach him through it. He’s got this.

His weight lands on the foot of the bed, leaning over to lift the baby’s head with one hand and slide the clothing over it with the other. It gets caught on his nose and he let’s go of Ian’s finger with a dissatisfied grunt that sounds a lot like his father’s, but Ian’s not going to point that out. He saw the way Mickey cringed when Iggy pointed out that Yev has Mickey’s eyes. Ian can’t blame him for not being able to bond with the baby yet. He’ll get there. With the right support, he’ll get there.

He’s doing a good job of keeping his frustration at bay while trying to shove his floppy arms through the sleeves. Immediately when they’re free of Mickey’s grasp, those little fingers find Ian’s again. Pulling harder at his fingertip. Silently begging in his mind for the baby not to cry. If he cries, Mickey’s going to shut down.

“Okay,” snapping up the crotch of the outfit, “got it.”

It’s inside out. But who the fuck cares?

Now he’s moving to the dresser, slamming through the drawers and returning with boxers, sweats, and a t-shirt. He’s gentle about pulling the sheets down, but Ian immediately shivers with the cool breeze swirling in the window, “sorry,” he barely vocalizes, “kinda musty in here. Long winter,” lifting Ian’s legs to slide the underwear up.

“I’m not an invalid Mick,” it’s half growled and he hates himself for it immediately. The guy just took care of him for weeks and now he’s going to be a dick about it?

“Then stop fucking acting like one,” he snaps back, but it’s not very convincing as his voice shakes and his fingers rise to his eyes immediately, “fuck,” flared nostrils and a bit lip.

And as soon as Ian takes his finger away from the baby, he starts howling. And Mickey’s entire body tenses. He wants to rush through the clothing, but he still feels like he’s moving through Jello, body shaky with exhaustion and underuse.

“Fuck,” his fists are clenched at his side as he scans over the scene.

Ian feels himself shrinking in on himself, wanting to disappear, not wanting to be the focus of Mickey’s frustrations or his wrath. But the baby is reaching fever pitch. His instincts screaming at him to protect the baby. Not believing for a moment that Mickey would hurt him, but a crying baby and a feeble useless boyfriend are mixing together in this bedroom like a rotting pile of compost in the middle of Mickey’s life along with all the other compost he’s always been surrounded by. And it’s not fair. It’s not fair for Ian to put him through this shit. And as soon as he’s capable, he needs to free Mickey, leave him so he doesn’t have just one more person relying on him.

He’s quick when he moves. Ian nearly lunges for his hands, thinking he’s going to smother the baby with a pillow. Instead he lifts him off the bed, “okay,” softly, “okay, ya zavzhdy budu poruch,” he’s drawing the squalling infant towards his chest that’s still bare and it hits Ian hard that he’s probably trying to get to the shower himself and lord only knows how long it’s been since he’s taken care of his own needs, “ya zavzhdy budu poruch,” his eyes are closed and the baby is barely starting to settle, but his lips are on his head and he’s repeating the phrase again and again. Hands stiff on his back, under his butt, but he’s trying. Tension like a rubber band about to snap, but he’s trying.

Fuck, Ian takes a deep breath and fights like hell to get his clothes on without passing out. Blinking spots away every time he moves too quickly, “Mick?” he’s got the pants on, the t-shirt seems like too heavy of a prospect, “bottle might be cool by now. Test it on your wrist first.”

He’s whispering the same thing over and over like a mantra into the kid’s head, maybe that rubber band did snap. Maybe touching the kid was his final breaking point. Maybe offering comfort when he needs it himself is his last straw.

“Mickey,” barely a whisper.

His eyes are lit with fire, but he manages to keep his voice at a reasonable level as to not disturb the baby further, “fuck, Ian,” mist clinging to that ocean, “I don’t know how to do this.”

“I’ll help you,” asserting with a voice that sounds weak and distant.

“I don’t need…” he starts but cuts himself off. He wants to deny help. Milkoviches don’t need help, Mickey doesn’t deserve help. But Yevgeny’s head jerks back, his crying has started to settle against his father’s heartbeat, peering up at him now. Mickey’s breath shakes when he looks down at him. Giving him a tiny nod while he reaches for the bottle. He won’t look at Ian as he lowers himself on the bed next to his hip. Offering the bottle for him to test.

“It’s good,” sliding himself over further to Mickey’s side of the bed, “lean back. Get comfortable. The more comfortable you are, the more he is.”

He can tell Mickey wants to roll his eyes, or curse him out. How the fuck could he be comfortable with the product of that day? The reason he’s still stuck here, stuck in this house full of horrors like ghosts clinging to the ceilings, the walls, the floors, echoing in the hallways and sitting on the edge of the bed at night.

Fuck, it feels like it takes every single ounce of energy in Ian’s body to position a pillow under Mickey’s elbow and cradle Yevgeny while cooing at him to calm him as much as possible, “keep him a little upright, he’s used to breastfeeding so…”

“Yeah I can fuckin’ see that,” as his little bird mouth turns towards Mickey’s bare chest, snorting around for a food source, “wrong tit tough guy,” he tells the baby.

Ian hates how terrified he looks at the prospect of doing this, of bonding with this baby in any capacity. He’s not sure if he can love this baby, he’s not sure if he can look this baby in the eye, he’s not sure if he can provide for this baby. And now he’s stuck sitting here shirtless with a hungry squalling infant and he has to do something. He can’t just turn his back, or hand him off to his useless weak boyfriend.

“Well he’s got his positioning all figured out,” Ian tries to smile but it feels like there are weights strapped to the corners of his mouth, “just rub the nipple on his lips, don’t tilt it too far though.”

The bottle is still in Ian’s hand, it’s hovering in the space between them. Starting to shake with the weight of it, and he’s so fucking exhausted from holding his head up. His chin accidentally meets Mick’s shoulder, leaning into his side probably harder than he intends but he’s so godawful tired. He can’t tell who’s hand is shaking harder when Mickey’s finally does rise for the bottle. Fuck, maybe he should just keep holding on. Maybe if they’re shaking to different rhythms they can cancel each other out. He doesn’t really have a choice when Mickey’s fingers just sort of clamp down over his and start bringing the bottle towards Yevgeny’s open bird mouth just in time for him to tuck his face into Mickey’s flesh, trying to suckle off his skin.

“C’mon. My tits ain’t that big, you ain’t gonna find anything there,” it breaks a tiny laugh from his pretty mouth though. And the weights holding the corners of Ian’s mouth down seem to lighten at the sound of it. He steers the nipple of the bottle to the corner of the baby’s mouth, his head twists immediately towards it and he latches on hungrily. Ian sighs relief, remembering the struggles with Liam, he rejected so many different nipple styles it was awful, like he’d rather starve than get nutrients from the wrong shaped nipple.  
His head is getting so fucking heavy and the heat of Mickey’s body next to him feels so fucking good, his breathing growing more relaxed as he watches the baby in his arm. Yev’s little fist is resting against Mickey’s sternum, clenching and unclenching as his eyelids start to grow heavy. Ian nearly tells him he has his dad’s hands, but he fights it. Instead he turns his face, letting his lips rest against Mickey’s strong shoulder. Shoulders that have carried so much invisible weight. So any unspoken horrors that Ian may never understand, may never hear.

“It was more than once,” he barely whispers it, his gaze staying down. Ian can’t quite tell, but he thinks it’s beyond the baby now, past the little ball of warmth and trust, looking at his own lap maybe, or the mattress beside him, the spot where Ian has been lying unmoving for weeks, “more than once that my dad sent for Svetlana.”

He falls silent. Gaze distant, baby starting to give into sleep at his chest. It takes what feels like the last strength Ian contains in his body to lift himself to Mickey’s level on the bed. Leaning his forehead against Mickey’s temple, running a hand the length of his jaw, drawing him nearer to press his lips against his cheek, “you’re doing great Mick. Really fucking great.”

And it’s more than that. Ian is proud of him. And he should say that. And Ian is grateful for him. And he should say that. And he loves him too. And he should really say that. Instead of allowing it to remain unanswered whispers against his spine.

But he doesn’t say that. Because he’s so fucking tired. And it’s so fucking overwhelming already. To just be sitting here. To just be walking through this with him. And the last thing Mickey needs right now is emotional overload. He’s reached his limit already, he’s fought his rising frustrations and anger to take care of the baby. And he’s doing, “really great,” his hand falling away from Mickey’s face to rest on his leg. Giving way to the rising exhaustion to rest his head on Mickey’s shoulder. He’s trapped by a sleeping baby anyway, he’s not going anywhere. Not yet. Hopefully not ever.

————

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya zavzhdy budu poruch - google told me this is Ukrainian for 'I'll always be there for you'/'I'll always be by your hand'.
> 
> The last thing I'm holding out hope for (aside from Noel's brows) is some kind of closure to the Yev relationship. Whether they admit he's Mickey's brother and not his son, or he has some kind of dialogue to make us think he's still thinking about him or is maybe even in contact with him. 
> 
> Either way, this whole collection of one-shots are fill-ins that I really need to exist in my head canon before S10 starts, I pretty much need these quiet supportive moments between them to still be able to ship them and I know we'll not get any insights into their past that give some of the depth I crave, so I'm preparing myself this way :)
> 
> He Ain't Heavy (the first one-shot in this collection) hinted at a different post-coming out, and I've done it differently each time I've dipped into it for each work, but this one is the one that I NEED. I need Ian to be the one coming after Mickey and even though things would have been tense and weird for awhile, I needed some intimacy in the days that followed. 
> 
> I've done more fill-ins than this throughout the course of writing them, it's just these moments that felt important to me at this stage. And I guess we'll see if they give any hints as to Mickey's time in Mexico, or if I feel a need to fill that shit in when the season is over. Thanks all!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this time or the first time - if I do any future canon one-shots they will also be added here as more chapters. 
> 
> You know the drill - kudos, comments, shares, light it on fire, whatever floats your boat. You won't find me on social media but I normally respond to comments :)


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